


tonight, we are victorious

by violentdarlings



Series: sex pollen [1]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Breaking the Fourth Wall, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, OT4, Season 2, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 15:02:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9277217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentdarlings/pseuds/violentdarlings
Summary: House and the team are at a symposium. Someone accidentally drops the sex pollen.It's all downhill from there.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuses, none.

“What kind of idiot brings an experimental drug to a symposium?” Foreman grunts, Chase’s arm slung over his shoulder. House levels a furious glare at the wall, almost too exhausted to snipe back as he limps along.

“The kind that keeps their easily aerosolised experimental drugs in a fucking glass container,” he replies, tugging Cameron along in Chase and Foreman’s wake. Foreman grunts again in agreement.

“I don’t know what you two are bitching about, I feel great,” Chase slurs, his Aussie accent almost too strong to be comprehensible.

“Of course you do,” Foreman snaps. “You and Cameron got a face-full of that shit.”

“Feels nice,” Cameron says dreamily. She keeps trying to wander off to brush her hands over furniture and the leaves on pot plants. She seems to like the texture of them. House seizes her wrist in his free hand – her wrist so tiny in his grasp she doesn’t seem real – and keeps pulling her along. She’ll have bruises in the morning, he thinks darkly, and can’t bring himself to care.

“We’ll start to show effects soon,” House tells Foreman, as the other man vainly tries to key card open his door while still hauling Chase with his other arm. “Give me that,” House snaps, and tears the key card out of Foreman’s grip, uncomfortably aware of Cameron’s arm snaking around his waist.

“Use your own,” Foreman snips, but there’s no real heat in it. The light beside the door handle briefly flashes green, and this, this House can manage, a controlled environment, somewhere to stash Cameron and Chase until whatever the fuck that stuff was wears off. And to think, only hours earlier, he’d been bitterly and vituperatively bitching about their accommodation, the ‘family suite’ they’d been booked into, four bedrooms linked by a communal kitchenette and living area, a bathroom tucked off to the side.

“What do they think we are, siblings?” he’d snapped while viciously dissecting a sub-standard Reuben.

“Actually, they think you’re our dad,” Chase had replied flippantly, and House had clapped a faux-touched hand to his heart.

“My children! How I love you all. Yes, even you, my beautiful black baby,” he’d added, pointing at Foreman with a piece of bread, Cameron giggling off to the side.

It hadn’t been bad, before everything had gone to hell.

Foreman throws Chase down none too gently on the sofa; Cameron sort of slithers out of House’s grip to settle beside him. Chase immediately put his head in Cameron’s lap and she starts to stroke her fingers through his hair, the both of them making little happy noises like a pair of adorable fucking mating marmosets or some shit like that. It makes House want to hurl.

He’s not the only one. Foreman is looking down at his canoodling co-workers with an expression that can only be described as bewildered and faintly disgusted. House sighs, loud enough so that everyone can know he’s displeased, and sits in the easy chair in the corner, as far away from the sofa as he can get. “We weren’t as close as them, but we were still in the room,” he reminds Foreman. “It’ll hit us soon.” The other man is scowling.

“We could be in a nice quiet hospital, having our vitals monitored, if _you_ hadn’t made me lie to the ambulance crew,” he grouses. House raises an eyebrow.

“How often is a hospital ‘nice and quiet’?” he enquires. “And didn’t you hear what those two nitwits in front of us were saying? This shit is experimental. And wherever it came from is eight different kinds of fucked up classified. Classified means military, military means cover up, cover up means us taken out of the ‘nice quiet hospital’ in the middle of the night and buried in a shallow grave. We’re better off on our own.”

Foreman doesn’t seem convinced. “Military wouldn’t bury us in a shallow grave,” he mutters, perching delicately on the edge of the sofa, somewhere around the vicinity of Chase’s feet. “A shallow grave leaves too much evidence.”

“Someone’s been watching their _Bones_ recently,” House snarks. It’s not one of his best, but it gets the desired result: Foreman, frown deepening.

“What are you two talking about?” Cameron pipes up. House tears his gaze away from where he’s attempting to dent the floor with his cane to study his other two ducklings, really look at them. They’re flushed, pupils dilated, languid and relaxed. They look high, and Chase’s eyes are closed, his lashes dark against his cheek, Cameron’s hands impossibly pale as they wind through Chase’s hair.

“Shallow graves,” House mutters, and looks away. The sight of them, unguarded and open, is enough to tug at something painful in his chest. There’s a reason that he chooses beautiful people to work with him, and another reason entirely why he keeps them at arm’s length.

“You guys are weird,” Chase says without opening his eyes. House scowls at him.

“Can it, Russell Coight,” he snips. Chase rolls his eyes; House can see it, the motion behind his close eyelids.

“Hilarious,” he deadpans. “You Americans have a truly revolutionary sense of humour.”

“Beat you poncy bastards in the war, didn’t we?” House retorts. This latest sally is enough to have Chase sitting upright, his eyes snapping open.

“I’m not English!” he says in indignation. “Christ, call me Russell Coight again if you have to. I’m not a bloody Pom.”

“Rude,” House chastises lightly. Cameron is hiding a smile.

“Don’t pay any attention to him,” she coaxes, guiding Chase’s head down to her lap again. House turns away, but he’s not even fumbled his Gameboy out of his trousers before there’s an awkward cough from Foreman’s end of the sofa.

“Um, guys? Could you maybe not do that?”

Wary, House turns his head just a little, but it’s enough. He’s greeted by the sight of Cameron and Chase enthusiastically making out – he supposes Chase would call it ‘snogging’, but House is American, God damn it, and he’ll use American idioms – Cameron’s head bent down to Chase’s, her dark hair falling over his shoulder.

“I knew it was a fucking aphrodisiac,” House mutters in a victorious sort of way. Foreman emits a noise that is between a shriek and a groan of dismay.

“We should separate them,” he decides. House eyes the couple again, firmly attached at the mouth.

“Good luck,” he says, and switches his Gameboy on. A moment later, it has been snatched from his hands and set well out of his grasp. “What?” he snaps at Foreman, looming over him with his hands on his hips.

“We can’t just let them go on like that,” Foreman says, in a tone that implies that ‘go on like that’ means ‘destroy the earth’. “They’ve been drugged. They can’t consent.”

“We’ve slept together before,” Cameron puts in briefly and helpfully, before butterflying kisses along Chase’s jaw. House gestures to them.

“Exactly! And they’re _both_ drugged. And it’s only a bit of nookie, not brain surgery.” Foreman passes a hand over his face, laughing dryly.

“Hell. I think I’d be more comfortable with the brain surgery…” He trails off, and a beatific expression comes over his face. When Foreman has been silent for a full thirty seconds, staring blissfully into the distance, House prods him with his cane. “What is it?” Foreman asks, in an odd tone House has never heard before and takes a moment to place. Huh. So this is what Foreman sounds like when he’s _mellow_.

“I know I should be angry about something,” Foreman continues, and turns his head. “But I just can’t think what it is… ah.” His eyes light up when he sees Chase and Cameron snogging – oh, _damn it –_ on the sofa, and he moves over to them like a man fumbling through a dream.

“No fair,” House complains, but no one’s listening. Foreman is sitting behind Cameron, his hands on her shoulders, pressing her down, holding her up. They’re all dressed, and they’re all drugged, but there’s something about this tableau that’s dirty all the same, his team. “Why am I the last to feel the effects?” But it’s a sham. Secretly, he’s pleased that he’s managed to miraculously escape the drug’s effects. House doesn’t like being out of control, unless he himself has actively chosen that path.

“You’re not going to stop us,” Cameron observes. She’s managed to tear her mouth away from Chase’s, at least for now. Chase has rolled onto his side and is pecking light kisses onto Cameron’s clothed thigh.

“Cripple,” House reminds her, waving his cane for emphasis. “I couldn’t stop the three of you if I tried. Plus, you know, you might not have noticed this but I’m not exactly the most moral of characters. If you three want to throw away your professional relationship on an ill-advised threesome because of sex pollen, be my guest.”

They’re not listening. The mood, the energy between them has changed from a gentle hum to a full blown crackle and snap, as though Foreman was the spark that turned cinders to flame. And the boys are up, tugging at Cameron with impatient hands. “Aren’t you coming?” Chase asks, hesitating a moment as Foreman and Cameron go hand in hand into the nearest bedroom. House sighs.

“Get lost, Chase,” he says, and usually his wombat duckling would pout, but the younger man just grins.

“You’ll regret it,” he says, and follows his colleagues into the bedroom, already stripping off his suit jacket. There’s a startled yelp from Cameron and a surprised laugh from Foreman, and a thud that sounds like Chase throwing himself down onto the bed.

He’ll regret it. Story of his fucking life.

 

There are noises coming from the bedroom, and House’s veins are on fire. He draws in a deep breath, aware it’s been no more than ten minutes, but it had to happen sooner or later, the drug finally affecting him. Idly he wonders why it took longer with him than the others, and he’s on his feet before he realises he’s stood.

He shouldn’t go in. he shouldn’t. So his young, hot ducklings are fucking each other stupid barely twenty feet away. So he’s under the influence of a highly potent artificial neurochemical that induces lowered inhibitions, arousal, and reckless behaviour – and so are they. It doesn’t mean they want their grizzled, bitter, older boss falling into bed with them.

But House can’t stop, and he lingers in the doorway – just for a moment, he tells himself, just to make sure they’re okay.

The lamp is on, and even with its meagre light it’s bright enough in the bedroom for him to see. Cameron’s down to her panties and bra, Chase shirtless and curled behind her, Foreman just shucking his dress shirt off his shoulders and coming back to Cameron’s lips.

She’s writhing between them lazily, Chase kissing her shoulder, the swan curve of her neck as she makes out with Foreman. She’s impossibly small sandwiched between them, rocking herself forward onto Foreman’s thigh nestled between her own, then back onto Chase. His team, all tangled up together, pale and gold and dark and exquisite, and nothing he can ever have.

And there’s no room, there’s no room between the three of them for him to fit, and House is turning to go when Cameron sits up and smiles, and says his name. And now they’re looking at him, all three of them, and he can’t move.

“Effects kicked in?” Chase asks wryly, and House permits himself a single, sharp nod. It’s not a purely pleasant sensation, not like it seems to be for the three of them. Desire is an arrow buried in his flesh, a sharp burning, but a good pain, one that he wants to sink into, not cringe away from like the throb in his leg and the ache in his chest.

“Observant of you to notice,” he snarks, but his heart’s not in it. Cameron is holding out her hands.

“What are you waiting for?” she asks, and it takes every inch of courage House has to take one step forward, hand gripping his cane so hard his knuckles bloom white. And then another step, good leg bad leg, good leg bad leg, and he’s there.

The bedroom they’ve stumbled into is his, but House isn’t complaining. Not when there are two pairs of hands pulling him down – Foreman’s are otherwise occupied in wrestling with his own belt. House descends into the bed rather ungraciously, the cane falling unheeded from his hand, and lands awkwardly, his thigh shrieking in protest for a moment before it quiets back down.

Cameron is there. He’s landed so he is facing her, and House reaches over, touches her cheek. “This is weird,” he whispers, just for her, but there is delight blooming over her face, as open and familiar as a well-loved book that invariably, always falls open to the right page.

“I know,” she murmurs back conspiratorially, and she’s kissing him, suddenly, the taste of her bright and sweet, the tingle of the drug, the sweetness of her mouth, the darker tastes where the boys have had theirs on her. House shifts, groans deep in his throat, sets one hand on Cameron’s hip and another in the dark soft cloud of her loosened hair. He could kiss her forever.

There’s someone behind him, a broad chest, heavy hands on his shoulders. Foreman. Which means the hand stroking against his over Cameron’s hip is Chase’s. House detaches his mouth from Cameron’s rather reluctantly. “So,” he quips. “You two aren’t gay. Just Housesexual?” Foreman laughs, and House feels the rumble of if down to his bones.

“Probably more to do with the experimental medication we all inhaled,” Chase points out mildly. Cameron’s pretty mouth turns down.

“So none of this is real?” she asks, squeezing House’s forearm for emphasis. “It’s all just chemicals?”

“Everything is ‘all just chemicals’,” Foreman says dryly. Cameron sniffs.

“You can be _such_ a _neurologist_ sometimes, Foreman –”

“Bite me,” Foreman says, as implacable as always – at least, right up until Cameron leans over and actually bites him.

What appears to have begun as a tickle war degenerates into rather angry kissing, Foreman toying at the clasp to Cameron’s bra, Cameron raking her blunt nails down his skin. Somewhere, in the jumble of bodies of Foreman tackling Cameron – albeit a very careful tackle on both their parts not to jar House’s leg – he’s beside Chase, the other man watching his colleagues kiss with a distracted and faintly detached air.

“Hey,” House says, and leans in to kiss him, because Chase is distractingly pretty like this, hair tousled, eyes liquid. And House isn’t usually into guys but right now he’s into everyone or maybe just his team, these three minds who can sometimes, _almost_ , come close to keeping pace with his own.

Chase kisses with a certain flair that speaks of hours spent on Sydney beaches with nothing better to do but be ruled by sand and time. House can almost taste it, the salt of the ocean, the heat of the sun soaking into flesh, just from the touch of lips to lips, of tongue on tongue. Chase is pale skin, lighter than House would expect of a boy from Down Under; blond hair streaked with gold, from too long in the Aussie sun. Chase’s fingers are at the collar of his dress shirt, and House tenses for a moment before relaxing.

Chase is an intensivist, and he’s used to making even the tiniest of movements, threading a camera through an artery, freeing a clot from a blood vessel. He stills his hands on House’s shirt, pulling away, his eyes glittering in the half-dark, focusing on something behind House that he can’t see. “Look,” Chase says, and House throws a glance over his shoulder, a glance which turns into something that lingers: Foreman’s dark hands on Cameron’s pale breasts, her head thrown back, Foreman kissing his way down Cameron’s flat abdomen.

“Jesus,” House murmurs, and turns on his side for a better look. There’s not a lot of room on the bed for three men and a woman, but they’re managing, somehow. Foreman and Cameron are all tangled up together, and Chase is curled against House’s back, occasionally grinding his dick into House’s ass.

It should be fucking weird. This shouldn’t be sending little bursts of epinephrine and something else that fizzes in his veins around his body. House shudders, and Chase slings an arm over his waist, drawing him closer.

“I knew you were at least a little bit gay,” House mutters at Chase just to be spiteful, and gets a particularly enthusiastic thrust in reply that has him biting his lip. Christ. Biting his lip, like he's a fifteen year old girl or a character in a fucking bodice ripper novel. Thank God Cameron’s too busy being thoroughly licked out, too occupied with gripping Foreman’s shoulders and whimpering to notice.

“I’m Australian,” Chase replies, his breathing at House’s ear, his lips occasionally brushing against House’s neck. Chase’s hands are unbuttoning his shirt, and this time House is too preoccupied to be apprehensive. “Our national motto should be ‘up for anything once’.”

“Do you two ever shut up?” Foreman says, coming up for air; Cameron shoves his head back down.

“Come on, Foreman,” she pants, and her hand stretches out, reaching for something to hold; House has it in his own before he has time to think. He raises it to his mouth, drops kisses along her clever doctor’s fingers, the soft inside of her wrist, and whatever Foreman’s doing with his tongue must be working because she damn near arches off the bed when she comes, her voice gone all broken and soft like the breath’s been kissed out her lungs.

Chase throws House’s shirt onto the floor. House hadn’t even noticed the intensivist easing his arms out of the shirtsleeves. “Sneaky little wombat,” he grumbles.

“That would hurt, if that was actually an insult,” Chase replies. House smirks.

“You won’t get my pants off that easily,” he retorts, and Chase’s eyes light up. House nearly groans aloud. He should know better than to give that boy a challenge.

Cameron’s recovered from what looked like a spectacular orgasm. She’s rolled onto her side, watching them with her heavy-lidded eyes, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “Good?” House asks her, and the faint smile becomes a full blown one.

“You guys have got to try coming with this stuff in your system,” she sighs, every inch of her languorous and satisfied.

“Better than meth?” Chase asks with a crooked smile, and Cameron throws her discarded bra at him.

“Ass,” she says, and House pouts.

“Honey,” he drawls. “I get so jealous when you call anyone else an ass.”

“Still talking too much,” Foreman says, and he’s holding House’s belt in his hands. House raises an eyebrow.

“Now who’s sneaky?” he asks, but he can’t stop the admiration from colouring his voice. “I suppose you’d be used to stealing things, though.”

Cameron folds her arms over her chest, completely naked and strangely imposing. “Pants,” she declares. “All three of you. Now.”

“Bossy,” House mutters under his breath, but he’s unzipping his trousers all the same. Chase is hopping from one foot to another getting his socks off, and Foreman is sedately folding his trousers up and setting them on the floor.

And suddenly they’re all naked, except for him.

“Is this the part where the gay panic is meant to set in?” House wonders aloud.

“Probably,” Foreman agrees.

“It’s not gay if there’s a girl involved,” Cameron says calmly. House snorts.

“Three dudes in a room naked together is definitely gay, and not even you can make this any straighter,” he replies.

“Fuck it,” Chase says; he appears to have been waging some inner conflict with himself, and succeeding. He’s still standing; he crosses the room and pulls Foreman into a surprisingly theatrical kiss, his hands on the other man’s cheeks.

There’s a pause. And just when House thinks Foreman is about to pull away, or deck Chase, or something, the two of them are at it like it’s war; hands scrabbling, wrestling for dominance.

House turns his head to look at Cameron. “Huh,” he says. Cameron’s watching Foreman and Chase like she’s finally found a sport she could get into.

“That shouldn’t be as hot as it is,” she says. House shrugs.

“Chalk it up to the drugs,” he advises. There’s a wicked little smile around Cameron’s mouth.

“Maybe I will,” she replies, and she’s tugging down his trousers. She throws them onto the floor, kisses her way up his calf, his knee, before she abruptly stops. Her mouth pauses over the ruin of his right thigh, the surgical scar, the pitting where his thigh muscle used to be. “Oh, House,” she says softly, and it’s wrong, all wrong, he doesn’t want the sympathy in her eyes, the gentleness in her voice. And now Foreman and Chase are looking, and he can’t bear it.

“Got nothing better to do with your mouth, Cameron?” he asks, and as one, Foreman and Chase groan. There’s nothing sexual about it; it’s their usual ‘House is an ass’ groan. “Go back to whatever you were doing to one another’s faces,” House tells them, and looks down at the woman hovering awkwardly over his scar. “Cameron?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “You were…?”

Cameron flushes. “Right,” she says, and House lets his head fall back on the pillow, anticipating a hand in his boxers or even better, her pulling them off entirely. But he’s wrong. After a moment, Cameron leans forward again, and butterflies the gentlest and most reverent of kisses over his mangled thigh.

It shouldn’t cause the breath to catch in his throat. But no one’s touched him there, not since the operation, not for years. Stacy had avoided his leg like the plague, the hookers had obeyed his warnings not to touch his right thigh on pain of death –

But he hadn’t warned Cameron, and she’s touching him now. And Foreman and Chase are barely inches away, currently acting like they’re trying to win the world’s most intense game of gay chicken. House can’t move his arm without bumping Chase in the shoulder or Foreman in the elbow, and he can’t tear his eyes away from the woman pressing her lips sweetly to the piece of him he hates the most.

“Cameron,” he says, and she hums softly in acknowledgement, the transference of sound through the skin over the ruined enough to have his head falling back again, hitting the pillow with a thud. But it doesn’t hurt. If anything, it tickles a bit.

It’s been so long since he expected anything but pain there.

“Cameron,” he repeats, and she lifts her head. He gathers her up into his arms and rolls, just enough to get her underneath him, not enough to send them toppling off the bed. And she’s underneath him, yielding and slight and with a core of steel running through her, her lips kissing him stupid.

And now, now she takes the opportunity to slip her hand in his boxers, wrap her hand around his cock, stroke him smooth and firm, like she’s looked inside his head and knows exactly how he likes it.

“I want you to fuck me,” she says from where she’s sucking an impressive hickey into his throat; House sighs.

“I can’t,” he says, and tilts her head up, forcing himself to meet her eyes. "Not like this, at least. A minor side effect of having next to no thigh muscle. Can’t get enough… oomph.” Cameron smirks, and the smug expression is at odds with her pretty face, except he’s seen her get enough diagnoses right to know she can be insufferable when she’s right.

“Roll over, then,” and she pushes him onto his back. He’s back within arm’s reach of Foreman and Chase, who aren’t fucking but appear to be heading fast in a similar direction, and Cameron rolls the condom onto him, sinks down with a tiny sound like a sigh.

She’s slick and hot and riding him like it’s all she wants out of life and the universe, her eyes glinting glass green and limpid, and it calms something in House, like the drug in his system is satisfied he’s finally getting on with things.

Maybe he is.

 

House wakes. There’s a soft pressure on the left side of his chest, a hand somewhere in the vicinity of his hip, and a muscled body curled loosely against his other side. He cracks open one eye – there is dawn light peering through the open door, and Cameron, her mussed hair a dark cloud and her cheek pressed against his heart as though counting the beats. The sheet is pulled up to just above her breasts, tangled around House’s legs. The hand belongs to Foreman – the other man has his head buried under a pillow – which means the third body could only be –

“They’re still asleep,” Chase murmurs. House glares over his shoulder at him, rubbing instinctively at his thigh.

“You think?” he asks curtly. Chase’s eyes narrow, following the motion of House’s hand, and realisation flits over his face.

“You need your Vicodin?” he asks. House closes his eyes.

“In my suit pants, wherever you hooligans tossed them last night.” Chase chuckles softly, and House is treated to his bare ass as he climbs out of bed to retrieve the pills. “Here.” House catches them one-handed, thumbing open the bottle with the ease of long practise, and swallows two back dry. The mattress dips as Chase gets back into bed, but House notices he doesn’t come nearly so close as he’d been before.

“The drug’s out of our systems, I think,” Chase whispers, like he’s heard House’s thoughts. “It’s going to be awkward as hell when those two wake up.”

House closes his eyes again. “Which is why I intend to sleep through the inevitable awkwardness,” he replies. “If you really must spoon me again, then I suppose you may.”

He can’t see it, but Chase’s smile is in his voice all the same, and he inches a little closer.

“Whatever you say, boss.”

 

The next time he wakes, he’s alone in the bed, and the room, through the half open curtains at the window, is flooded with enough light to be almost midday, although the door has been thoughtfully closed. He can hear soft voices outside, the low tones of Chase and Foreman arguing, the higher sound of Cameron being peacemaker between them.

So he’s fucked his team, after a fashion. And now he has to live with it.

House dresses, painfully; rakes a hand through the mess of his hair, and picks up his cane. He pulls open the door, trying to ignore how the sight of them all looking in his direction at once does something odd to his throat.

“Coffee,” he says, and Cameron is handing him a cup, Chase is finishing a crossword, and Foreman is telling Chase that fifteen down could only be cholangiocarcinoma.

Chase is calling Foreman an idiot.

And this is House’s life.


End file.
